


Mile

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Canon Slavery, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca has complicated feelings for his handsome fool of a master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mile

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't historically accurate. Set near the beginning of the film. Thank you to abbeyjewel for betaing for me! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s late and it’s cold, even with the fires lit as they are, adorning the wall in small circles of orange cut right out of the shadows. Esca’s only halfway down the hall when the hesitation seizes him again, slows his feet to an almost shameful shuffle when he should be _running_ to avoid getting caught. He’s thought of this so many times, _almost_ moved so many nights; it would be foolish to turn back now and never know. But it’s also so incredibly _foolish_ , and worse, a betrayal of everything he is, that it’s hard to will himself on.

His sandal hits the stone like thunder in his ears. He feels conspicuous, but he keeps moving. It isn’t _really_ a betrayal, he tells himself; it would be to a Briton, to a man of the Brigantes, to the son of his father, but he isn’t that anymore. He feels the absence of his dagger like a physical weight. He’s a Roman _slave_ now, and he belongs to Marcus Flavius Aquila. It’s Marcus’ right to have what Esca’s going to offer. By all rights, Marcus should’ve taken it sooner. Should’ve had Esca the first day Esca was assigned to him. But he never has, never even seemed like he might, and that’s the only reason Esca lets himself do this, creeping down the hall at night to slink into Marcus’ room. The doors seem to creak as he pushes them, though he’s so, so careful.

He slips inside and shuts them behind himself, the light of the hall flickering through the carved-out pattern at the top. It washes over a little spot on the floor that Esca moves through. The only thing of interest in this room is the bed and what lays in it, the great, hulking, handsome form of a perfect Roman specimen. If Marcus weren’t so painfully beautiful, Esca would never do this. It isn’t a sense of wanting to please. It’s no acceptance of his servitude. It’s a culmination of frustration, plain and simple, purely his own lust for the gorgeous beast of a man he’s washed and clothed and cared for. Anyone in his position would feel the same, he tells himself, Roman or Briton or otherwise—it’s impossible to feel the ripple of muscles on a man like Marcus and _not_ be disappointed when they never pin you against the wall or floor or mattress. Esca’s seen Marcus dripping with sweat from a hunt, drenched wet in the rain or the bath, down to nothing and always with that cool, subtle strength and respect. Marcus has never treated Esca with anything but respect.

But Marcus _stares_ too, when he thinks Esca isn’t looking. He looks at Esca like he wants to pounce, meld the two of them together, devour all of Esca’s being. And yet he doesn’t touch what he already owns, and that’s why Esca comes to perch on the side of Marcus’ narrow bed, weighing down the sheets.

It’s almost comical how easy this is: slinking into a warrior’s bedroom in the dead of night. He could kill Marcus right here. Instead, he whispers, “Marcus,” and closes his fingers around Marcus’ thick bicep.

Marcus shifts in Esca’s hand, turns to look up and over his shoulder, squints through the dark and murmurs, “Esca...?”

Esca licks his lips. There was no game plan, not really. It shouldn’t be subtle, a slave creeping into his master’s bed, though Marcus can be a bit... dense... at times. When it comes to things that don’t strictly involve being a perfect soldier. Esca finally asks, with a clear purpose in his eyes, “Do you want anything?”

Marcus just looks confused. He blinks and rubs at his face before looking back at Esca, clearly still half asleep, and he mumbles, “No.” Then he rolls over, dislodging Esca’s hand, and lies on his back. Esca doesn’t move, just sits where he is, hip now brushing Marcus’ side beneath the blanket. Marcus asks, “What are you doing here?” Around a stifled yawn, he adds, “Can I do something for you?”

For _him_. A slave. Esca _wants_ to hate Marcus. He should. But he _can’t_. He contemplates bending down and brushing their lips together, pulling his tunic over his head and offering his battered, scrawny, dirty body up to his master’s whims. Marcus saved him, is good to him, and is so horribly beautiful. He shakes his head.

“My chambers are cold.” When Esca pauses, concern washes over Marcus’ face. “...Can I sleep with you?” It’s a flimsy excuse and a cowardly out. But it might be worse to give himself away so freely; better to let his master take him first, let it be Rome’s fault and not his own moral failing.

It’s hard to tell in the low light, but Marcus’ cheeks might be darkening. Marcus looks taken aback, his eyes searching all over Esca’s face, and he gulps, takes a minute, and says, “Yes.”

Esca nods and moves before either of them can change their minds. He pushes at Marcus’ shoulder, and Marcus turns onto his side again, shuffling to the other end of the narrow space—there isn’t enough room for two men to lie on their backs. Good. Esca has to climb off to lift up the blanket, and he sits down again on the mattress, then bends to untie his sandals. He can feel Marcus’ eyes boring holes into his back, and he wonders if it’s at all possible that Marcus could find him as entrancing as he finds Marcus. Marcus must see _something_ in him, to save him and keep him well and stare at him so often, but he has no idea what it is. When Esca finishes and turns to lie down, Marcus quickly looks away.

Marcus rolls over, facing away, depriving Esca of his pretty face but leaving his broad back. Shuffling under the shared blanket, Esca huddles up to his master, curling around Marcus’ spine. He wants to loop his arm over Marcus’ waist, see if he can make Marcus cuddle back into him, but he doesn’t dare.

Lying so close like this, he can _smell_ the raw musk of Marcus’ body. His senses are filled with it. If he’d just lower his head a little bit, he could drag his teeth over Marcus’ shoulder and trail his tongue above the neckline of Marcus’ tunic. He lets his knees press into the back of Marcus’, careful of Marcus’ bad leg. He could press their hips together if he wanted. His body, always excited around Marcus, yearns to strain forward, and for the first few minutes of lying there, his mind’s consumed with fantasies of _fucking_ Marcus raw, turning him over and pounding him into the mattress, making him scream and cry and punishing him for every bad deed Rome ever did.

If he thought he could get away with it, he’d touch himself, but that might be no different than touching Marcus. So he lies where he is, hyper aware of every one of Marcus’ nervous breaths, until they begin to even out and deepen.

He knows when Marcus finally falls asleep. After not doing a thing. Coward. In a way, Esca hates Marcus for that as much as he would if Marcus were to suddenly claim that right to Esca’s body.

Perhaps another night. Now that Esca knows he can get away with it, there’s no need to ever sleep in a slave’s small cot again. Only when he’s sure Marcus won’t know does he wrap his arms tenderly around Marcus’ body, and he presses a small, chaste kiss to the nape of Marcus’ neck, murmuring, “Goodnight.”


End file.
